


Written on Your Skin

by Rennithrad



Category: Warrior's Cross - Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Arlo Lancaster, Background Preston/Liam Bell, But everyone's an adult, But only if you squint, Canon-Typical Violence, Fic Trade, Here you go Kahvi!, Hurt/Comfort, Kid!Cameron, Kid!Julian, M/M, Might be the beginning of a series, No idea if this hits what you were looking for but I hope so, Pain-sharing, Soulmates, we'll have to see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21991969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rennithrad/pseuds/Rennithrad
Summary: Julian knows he is bondless. He accepted that years ago, when the quiet life of his childhood shattered and he was thrown into Dublin's harsh underground to fend for himself. It's for the best, he's decided. His soul is far too stained to be a match to anybody else's. He's done too much, and been on the wrong side too often to pull anyone else down into it with him. Let alone Cameron. The man's innocent lightness is part of what always drew Julian to him. He couldn't bear to spoil that for him.He contented himself to stay quiet, to watch and not hope for anything more. To protect him from a distance. But when old enemies resurface, will Julian be able to protect anyone at all?
Relationships: Julian Cross/Cameron Jacobs
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyAnchorAndYourCompass](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=MyAnchorAndYourCompass).



> This fic is a (rather late) Christmas Present for my friend Kahvi on tumblr (https://myanchorandyourcompass.tumblr.com/). Hope you like it! <3

It was dark when Julian’s grandmother found him. He had escaped the little farmhouse after dinner, mumbling a weak excuse about going for a walk that he had known wouldn’t keep her long. But he hadn’t felt up to talking and the little walls of the house had felt as though they were closing in about him, trammelling him in with his thoughts.

It really wasn’t the way one was meant to feel on Christmas. The snow had crunched under his feet as he made his way into the penned in little yard, quietly passing the chicken coop and the little garden patch and out the gate. The dirt road down to the beach was rocky, slippery from ice and snow, but familiar, and he followed it easily.

He didn’t go down to the water. It was far too cold for that. Instead, he settled in a seat on the sand, where a crumbling stone wall had sheltered it from the worst of the snow, staring out at the water beyond. He breathed in slowly as the waves crashed against the shore, trying to take that rhythm, that inevitability into himself. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on nothing but the sound of the water rumbling in his ears, and the sting of the cold wind on his cheeks.

Because of that, he didn’t notice his Grandmother’s arrival until she folded herself into a seat on the sand beside him with a little sigh. “Would you tell me what’s disturbing you, my heart?” She asked, her soft voice entirely patient. She looped a scarf around his neck without waiting for him to answer, dropping his gloves into his lap.

Julian looked down, fingering the edge of the woolen cuff. “It doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t look up, but he could hear the soft smile in her voice. “It does if you intend to earn frostbite over it, my dear.”

Julian’s lips quirked up in a little reluctant smile, and he tugged on the gloves, wiggling his fingers to make her laugh. “I just… Was thinking about this morning.”

That morning, they had cooked up three trays of Christmas sticky buns and brought them into the village, as they did every Christmas. Two trays for the church to hand out when they opened to those in the village with no where else to go on Christmas night. The other they had taken around the village to divy up among his Grandmother’s friends.

It had never bothered him before now. He had always liked the tradition, the bit of anticipation before they even considered opening presents. He liked taking them to the church, and singing carols together as they walked down the icy country lanes.

But today, stepping into Mr. Corinth’s little flat in the center of the village, a sense of cold dread had swelled in the center of his stomach, tight and painfully difficult to ignore.

He was already fifteen. There weren’t many children his age in the village, but those that were had already felt at least the stirrings of the bonds. Bruises they didn’t recognize, that flared to life, and faded within moments. Cuts and scrapes and normal childish accidents that they hadn’t caused.

But Julian hadn’t. He hadn’t felt a thing. He was fifteen, and he hadn’t felt even a whisper of transference across the bond that supposedly linked him to the other half of his soul. The transference could begin as young as ten in some, yet even at fifteen, he hadn’t felt a whisper of pain that wasn’t his. It was like there was no one there. Like it was empty. As if the world had taken his measure, and decided there was nothing that could be done. It happened sometimes, that the bond simply never formed.

It had happened to Mr. Corinth.

“What about this morning?” His grandmother asked gently. “Did you not like what you got?”

He shook his head, plucking at the fingers of his gloves. “No, nothing like that. Just… Mr. Corinth.”

“ _Ah_ ,” She sounded unsurprised.

Julian swallowed and looked back out at the crashing waves, “I’ve still never felt them.”

Her fingers carded his hair back from his face, and he looked up at her at last. She smiled reassuringly, the creases around her eyes deepening a little. “You’re only fifteen, love,” she murmured. “It’s slow at your age, you know that.”

“But I’ve never felt _anything_ ,” Julian insisted, rubbing his hands over his arms roughly, “not even for an instant. Surely I should have felt something by now.”

“Perhaps she may be younger than you,” his grandmother said reassuringly. “The transference doesn’t start until both parties are entering adulthood. Your grandfather was ten years younger than me, and I didn’t feel a thing till I was twenty-five.”

Julian still wasn’t soothed. He frowned, staring out at the grey-green ocean. It wasn’t that he minded the idea that his soulmate was younger than him, but he needed to be sure. He needed to know that there was a reason that he hadn’t felt anything when everyone else did. Besides, even at fifteen, he was fairly certain that whoever his soulmate was, they wouldn’t be a _she_. He couldn’t bring himself to mention that to her now. “But,” his voice was very soft, and he couldn’t bring himself to look up into her too-kind face. “What if I don’t have one? What if I don’t feel anything, because there is no one for me?”

“Oh my Julian, sweet, come here,” she pulled him gently into the circle of her arms, tucking his head against her chest and resting her chin on the top of it. “God’s gifts don’t come in the times or shapes we expect of them,” she murmured, rubbing her hand gently over his back. “We can’t expect or demand them, or be impatient. He’ll guide us to them, when we need them. It’s rare, for people to be completely alone in the world.”

But it did happen. Julian thought again about Mr. Corinth, alone on Christmas except for them in that bare little flat. “But what if--”

“ _If_ that’s true, you’ll find your own happiness in the world,” She said firmly, tilting his head back to make him look at her. “You don’t need a soulmate to be happy, my dear. I haven’t had your grandfather for thirty years, but they’ve been a good thirty nonetheless. I had my daughter, and my church and my work, and I had you. There are plenty of things to fill your life with, even without that.”

Julian tried to accept her words. There was nothing he could do about it either way, after all. And like she said, it was rare to not have a soulmate, somewhere among the billions of people in the world. And he _was_ only fifteen.

* * *

He’d still been fifteen when she’d died, leaving him alone, and he had been thrust into the darkness of Dublin’s underworld on his own. No friends, no home, no family, and no choice but to do whatever he had to to survive. With no whisper of a flicker from the bond.

By eighteen, he knew she had been wrong. He had no soulmate. Surely, if he had he would have felt something in all this time? He wouldn’t have been alone with it all. No, he was through with hoping. He had no soulmate, and the realization sent him hurtling into a reckless spiral that he was glad she wasn’t around to see. A spiral that had led him to Agnes. And the Rangers.

By thirty he was glad of it. Time had given him the distance he needed to see God’s wisdom, where before he had only seen heartbreak. He was far too stained to be the other half of anyone’s soul. He had done too much, and been too much to subject on anyone else. He was glad.

He _told_ himself he was glad.


	2. Chapter 2

Cameron was thirteen the first time he felt him.

The connection didn't arrive for Cameron like it did for most of his friends. He didn't stumble across a bruise he didn't recognize, or watch a papercut bloom across his hand. One of his friends, Alec, had memorably fallen down the stairs only to be jabbed repeatedly with a pencil in retaliation. No matter how subtle it had been though, it always caused an outburst. 

People wanted to see. They wanted to know what it was like, if they hadn’t felt their own yet, or they wanted to tell stories if they had. It never went under the radar. Not the first time, anyway. 

Cameron had dreaded that sort of attention, should his bond make itself known at school, no matter how much he looked forward to the transference itself. He didn't _want_ to be a spectacle. He didn't want to be noticed. If it were up to him, he wanted to be home when it happened. Alone, so that he could process it by himself before telling anyone else.

It just seemed an intensely personal moment to him, that first moment of connection with the person who he would one day love. Like his parents did. He wanted to have that moment on his own, to have time to cherish it, to imagine who was on the other side of it. 

_Not_ have a gunshot wound materialize in the middle of class.

* * *

The shock hit first. Cameron’s attention, already waning, shattered as a rush of cold swept over him from the top of his head down to his fingertips.

Alec glanced over, his eyes coasting over Cameron before snapping back to his face, instantly alert. “Cam? Are you all right?”

“Y-yeah,” Cameron began, trying to shake off the woozy sensation that had swept over him all of a sudden. His shirt felt suddenly wet and heavy, and he looked down at it with a numb sort of bewilderment to see a growing stain of scarlet spreading across his t-shirt.

Then the pain came. It burned along his nerves with icy sharpness, making his spine arch with the sudden blinding intensity. He couldn’t get the air into his lungs to scream, couldn’t feel anything but the pain that went on and on without a break.

“ _Cam!_ ” Cameron couldn’t focus on the voice, on the sudden eruption of movement all around him, couldn’t focus on anything except the blinding, choking agony pulsing through his shoulder. He felt hands on him, heard Mr. Green’s voice as if through a long tunnel telling everyone to stay in their seats.

Someone was carrying him. And now the choking grip around his throat eased. A sob escaped him, then another, as he desperately tried to drag air into his lungs.

“It’s all right. You’ll be all right.” It wouldn’t. He was dying. He knew he was dying. Surely nothing else could hurt this much. He let out a sobbing breath and shook his head, but whoever was carrying him placed him on something soft and then pressed a hand to his head to stop him from moving. 

“It rarely lasts more than a few minutes,” the voice said, soothing despite the undertone of concern that threaded through it. “You’re all right, Mr. Jacobs. You’re doing so well.”

_What rarely lasts more than a few minutes?_ Cameron thought wildly, sucking in another ragged breath. _What’s happening to me?_ He couldn’t think, couldn’t process anything except the icy burn in his shoulder.

And then, quite suddenly, it was as if it had never been.

Cameron dragged in a frantic gasp as if he’d been half drowned. The rigid tension fled his body and he collapsed back against--

This wasn’t his desk. He forced his eyes open with an effort, taking in an unfamiliar cinderblock room, and a man’s worried face hovering over him. He was on a low, lumpy sofa, yet after the agony of the moment before, it might as well have been a feather mattress. He let out a shuddering breath, and dragged his eyes up to meet the gaze of the man kneeling beside him. 

“W-what?” Only when he tried to speak did he realize he was shaking. He felt very cold, little shivers racing over his skin.

The man, _Mr. Green,_ Cameron recognized now, reached down to press his shoulder down against the couch gently, stopping him from rising. “How do you feel?”

“I-- weird,” Cameron managed, glancing down at himself. He blanched. The t-shirt he had been wearing was soaked crimson, “What--?”

“I believe,” Mr. Green said carefully, keeping a gentle restraining hand on Cameron’s shoulder, “That that was your transference, Mr. Jacobs. From the look of you, I would guess that your bondmate was-- shot.” Mr. Green looked rather sick at having to say that to a middle-schooler. “Have you felt anything before?”

Cameron’s gut twisted in horror. _That_ had been from his soulmate? _God_. Was he even still alive? What had happened? Would he feel it if he died? A shudder passed through him and Cameron swallowed against the sudden bile rising in his throat. Would he die before Cameron ever got the chance to meet him?

“-eathe, Mr. Jacobs. Breathe, you’re all right.” Mr. Green’s words brought Cameron back to himself and he forced himself to take a slow deep breath. 

“There,” Mr. Green said when Cameron had himself mostly back under control. “I’m going to go have the office call your parents to take you home for the day. Get some rest. And--” Mr. Green paused, half way to his feet and caught Cameron’s eye. “And try not to dwell on it. There’s nothing you can do for them now.”

Cameron didn’t answer. The man gave him a slight nod, clearly reluctant to leave him, but turned and slipped out into the hall anyway. 

Cameron collapsed back onto the lumpy couch, staring up at the ceiling tiles over his head. _Nothing you can do for them. Nothing you can do. Useless._ His other half might die before he ever got the chance to meet them, and he knew it, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do to stop it. 

He closed his eyes, not even bothering to try and stop the rush of heat to his face that made his eyes burn. His soulmate needed him. And he couldn’t do a thing to help them.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

* * *

The next time he felt the bond, the flash of heat and pressure of a blow across his cheek, he hardly felt the pain in the rush of relief that his soulmate was still alive, still out there waiting for him. The vivid bruise faded within ten minutes, and Cameron spent the whole rest of the day nearly giddy with relief. 

And so it went. Cameron’s mood swung between terrified and elated in turn, depending on the severity of the injury. On the days he came away with nothing more than a cut or bruise or scrape, he walked around, high on the relief of knowing that someone was out there that was for him. That they were all right. On the days it was worse, when the moments until the injury faded felt like hours, and he bled through his clothes from wounds that had never belonged on a thirteen year old, he felt sick with fear. 

Soon after, his mom got him into therapy. It wouldn’t stop the transference. There was nothing that could do that, and Cameron wouldn’t have wanted it anyway, but it at least give him the techniques to put it out of his mind, both the good and the bad. It gave him the space to start thinking about his own life again.

And it worked, for a few years. He learned to manage the pain, and the worry and the relief and the hope, learned to pack it all away into a box that he could deal with on his terms, rather than on the bond’s. It worked. For a while.

And then the crash had happened.

* * *

It was nearly three in the morning by the time Cameron returned home from the hospital. His parents had both been declared dead on the scene, but he’d still had to go to the hospital and talk to doctors and police for what felt like days, and was probably hours. He felt numb and empty, as if the events of the night had hollowed him out, leaving nothing behind.

Cameron leaned against the door frame as he slipped into the silent house. He couldn’t stand the silence. A waiting sense of dread filled it, like disaster. Like ghosts. Like headlights in the wrong lane. He shuddered and flipped on the radio, not caring what it landed on, and spun it up to max volume. Some pop song that he felt like had been playing all summer filled the room, and it wasn’t enough, would never be enough, but it at least held off the looming dread. He went around the house, flicking on light after light, until the entire house was ablaze. 

Then he unlocked his father’s liquor cabinet. 

_His_ liquor cabinet.

He didn’t bother to read the label on the bottle, didn’t care that he was only eighteen, just worked the lid off with a close-minded determination to get drunk enough that he wouldn’t have to think anymore tonight. 

He took a heavy swig from the neck of the bottle, and choked on the unfamiliar burn. As he did, a line of fire opened up across the back of his hand, bleeding sluggishly.

Cameron stared at it, dull surprise transforming into _fury._ It pounded in his ears, making it almost impossible to think. Even now. Even _today_ \-- He let out a shout of despair, and spun, flinging the full bottle at the wall where it shattered with a splash of brown liquor. “I _hate_ you!” He shouted into the blasting dance beat, his voice strangled.

He swiped his hand across the injury roughly, ignoring the renewed burn, and _hoped_ it made it worse for whatever bastard was on the other side. 

The transference was a cruel joke wasn’t it? After all that he had felt, after cuts and burns, and gun shots and bruises, a lifetime’s worth of pain spread over five short years, and it would never stop. It just came and came, and he had been there for all of it. He had never once left the bastard alone.

And now? When he needed him, Cameron knew that he was completely, and utterly alone. He bent forward over his hand and dug his nails in as a ragged sob escaped him. Whatever fluke of genetics had created the transference hadn’t cared about emotional pain. No one was on the other side of this for him. No one was waiting.

No one was there.


	3. Chapter 3

There was only one booth in all of Tuesdays that had a view of every door in or out of the dining room. Being paranoid had saved Julian’s life too many times for him to care about Blake’s teasing. The man claimed he was “missing the ambience”.  _ Christ _ , if he cared about ambience, he could have his dinner at his own bloody house, instead of dragging himself halfway across the city. It was certainly better company.

Well, mostly. The other benefit of the booth, of course, was that it was in Cameron’s section. 

The young man stopped at his table now, offering him a friendly smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes with honest pleasure. “Good evening. The house wine and the special?” He offered without bothering to introduce himself. Julian found himself smiling in response, just a little, the unfamiliar motion making his face ache. 

Julian was glad he had stopped introducing himself. He liked to think that Cameron knew him now, even though that wasn’t true on so many levels he couldn’t even think to count them. Cameron didn’t even know his masks, not really, let alone  _ him _ . And it was better that way. Safer at the very least. Cameron didn’t need him bringing trouble to his door. 

Surely he had a bondmate waiting for him anyway. He might even have found him already, though he looked barely twenty-five at the oldest. It was getting easier for people to find their soulmates now, through forums, and chat rooms and facebook. People were finding them younger than they used to.

It seemed rather to take the magic out of it, to Julian’s mind, the power of finding the one person designed for you whittled down and shared out into inspiration porn. Then again, he might feel differently, if he had someone out there he was impatient to meet.

“Sir?”

Julian shook himself from his thoughts, and glanced up to see Cameron looking at him in concern.

He forced a little smile and shook his head. “Apologies,” he murmured. The american accent he used as Julian Bailey deepened his voice slightly, “I was wool-gathering. Yes that’s fine.”

“O-of course,” Cameron collected his untouched menu, a wide-eyed, slightly owlish look to him. Julian wondered why, but decided not to ask, watching as he wound back through the tables toward the kitchen door. He really was beautiful, his light brown hair the color of honey in the candlelight, and the black uniform hugging his trim frame decadently. No, he had someone waiting for him. He had no need for a bondless rogue like Julian, let alone everything else that he was.

Julian turned his attention away from the kitchen with an effort, pulling the thumb drive out of his pocket and turning it over in his fingers. It was the reason that he’d had to see Blake tonight, the last piece to a tidy piece of work they had been wrapping up over the last fortnight. All he had to do was pass him this last piece, and then he would have a few days to himself while Blake worked out what to do next. 

That was the idea at any rate, though it seldom worked out the way he intended. He flipped the thumbdrive absently across the backs of his fingers with a little flourish, twisting his hand to grab it out of the air before it landed.

He missed, his hand spasming as a flash of white hot pain flared across his forearm. He hissed in surprise, the thumbdrive hitting the cloth covered table with a muffled thump. He jerked the sleeve of his charcoal- grey sweater down and stared at his arm in bewilderment, a sense of numb unreality sweeping through him. He watched silently as his skin reddened and swelled in an arc from his palm back toward his elbow. 

It wasn’t the first burn he had received by any means. But it  _ was _ the first that had appeared out of nowhere on his skin as if by magic. As if it had happened to someone else.

A bottle of wine thunked down on the table and he jumped, for once not having sensed anyone approach. A harried looking waitress gave him a clearly forced smile. “I’m so sorry, Cameron had a bit of an emergency he had to take care of, I’ll be taking over your table for him.”

Julian barely heard what she said, too focused on his arm to care about anything else. This… wasn’t possible. He  _ knew _ this wasn’t possible. He didn’t  _ have _ a bond. He  _ didn’t. _ But what else could it be? Some sort of contact acid in his clothes? But surely if it was, it wouldn’t have stopped with his arm? Who would have placed it there. The only person who had access to his wardrobe was Preston, and Julian doubted he would stoop to this, no matter how badly Julian had pissed him off.

But surely that was still more probable? Surely it was more likely that Preston had gone too far to punish him, or that someone had breached his defenses and taken this roundabout method of injuring him, than that now, at nearly forty, his bond was revealing itself for the first time. That  _ wasn’t _ possible.

“Sir--  _ Oh _ ,” The girl’s eyes went wide, but Julian had already swept the thumbdrive off the table and was standing quickly, scooping his coat off the seat beside him.

“Sir, wait--” She said quickly. He didn’t have the focus to spare her any attention. Instead he flung a few hundreds onto the table to cover his uneaten meal, and strode toward the door.

“Sir!” She called again, but he didn’t listen. He couldn't think about anything beyond the throbbing ache in his forearm, that was even now starting to fade.

* * *

“ _ Preston! _ ” There was something almost frantic to Julian’s voice as he slammed the door to his house behind himself, his natural brogue coming out full force. “Get your bloody ass down here.”

There was a little crash and Preston appeared at the top of the stairs instantly, his gun in his hand and his face locked into the icy hardness he fell into when they had a job. When all he saw was Julian standing at the front door of the house, a look of utter disgust passed over his face. He clicked the safety back on and shoved the gun into the waistband of his jeans.

“ _ Christ _ , what the hell is wrong with you?”

“This,” Julian waved his unmarked arm in Preston’s direction, striding through into the study in search of a bottle of whiskey.

He heard Preston grumbling behind him as he came down the stairs, following him into the study. “Right. You sure you need anymore of that?” He nodded to the whiskey bottle, raising an eyebrow as Julian took a swallow directly from the bottle. “What is it ‘s wrong with your arm exactly?

“Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing,” Julian said shakily, slamming the whiskey bottle back down on the desk, and leaning against it with both hands. 

“Right. And that made you ruin the good whiskey  _ why? _ ”

“Fuck off, you aussie cunt.”

“Uh huh.”

Julian let out a rough breath and straightened, scrubbing his hands roughly over his face before looking back at the place where the burn had been again. He still felt numb, unsure how to process what it was he had seen. “Because less than half an hour ago I had a burn the size of Dublin across my fucking arm.”

Preston’s eyes widened, though he didn’t seem to otherwise react. “The transference?”

“I can’t imagine what else it would be.”

“Your soulmate.”

Julian let out an aggravated huff of air, and shot Preston a glare. The word felt like ants on his skin, absolutely and irrevocably  _ wrong _ . “ _ Yes.” _

Preston made a little hum in the back of his throat. “Thought you didn’t have one of them.”

Julian let out a weak laugh and covered his eyes with a hand. “So the bloody hell did I!”

Preston snorted and came over to the desk, taking a swig of the whiskey himself before pushing it back at Julian, “So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Do? God what is there  _ to _ do?” Julian asked. His chest felt tight with a bewildered panic he hadn’t felt in years. Everything about this was wrong. He was bondless. He  _ knew  _ that. It was as much a part of him as anything else was. “I’m nearly forty, what the hell is it doing showing itself now?”

A sickening thought occurred to him and he blanched, “Bloody hell, he can’t have just reached the right age,” he said, horrified. He had done so many things, killed and mutilated as the job demanded, but surely whatever act of God chose the bonds wouldn’t expect  _ that _ of him.

Preston rolled his eyes and shoved Julian into a chair firmly, pushing the whiskey bottle into his hand. “Shut up,” he said simply, and went to prod a fire to life in the grate before sitting across from Julian.

“Now, I sincerely doubt that sir, but think about what your life has been.”

Julian leveled a glare at him and Preston spread his hands in explanation, “Come off it. You’re really telling me you would have noticed somebody else’s scrapes and bruises as often as you get roughed up?”

That, Julian had to admit, was a fair point.

“So,  _ are _ you going to do something about it? Sir,” Preston tacked on, just to annoy him.

Julian let out a snort of disgust and leaned back in his chair. “How exactly do you expect me to do that?” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face again. “It’s not as though  _ I _ can go around posting about it online. For all I know he might be back in bloody Ireland.”

Preston snorted and shook his head, “Seems rather round about way to me,” he pointed out.

“What are you on about?” Julian sighed and gestured for Preston to say whatever it was he was building up to.

“Well,” Preston’s lips twitched in a little smug smile, “Seems to me you already have a way to communicate, right there.” He nodded to Julian’s bare arm. He reached into his pocket and dug out his keys, finding the little metal point he had kept on there as long as Julian had known him.

He hiked up one sleeve and used it to scrawl the word  _ hello _ onto his forearm, the sharp tip leaving behind faint white scratches.

A moment later new words bloomed just below Preston’s, the handwriting far neater that Preston’s had been.

_ It’s 2 in the bloody morning. Fuck off. _

Preston chuckled and withdrew his arm, writing something else without showing it to Julian before tugging his sleeve back down.

Julian was staring at him. In all his years of hearing about the transference, in his childhood obsession with the thing, he had never heard of someone using it to  _ talk _ to their bondmate before. “That-- That is far too smart for you to have come up with.”

Preston let out a bark of laughter and shook his head. “Nah, that was all him. Scratched a threat that he would make me hurt double for any pain I passed to him into my thigh when I was thirteen.”

Julian swallowed a snort. “Course,” He shook his head.

Preston eyed him for a long moment before sighing and getting to his feet. “Just think about it,” he encouraged quietly. “Don’t let this one pass you by.”

He clapped Julian on the shoulder lightly and slipped from the room, leaving Julian alone with nothing but a fire, a bottle of whiskey, and the visceral knowledge that somewhere out there, there was someone waiting for him after all.


	4. Chapter 4

“Will you listen to me?’

Cameron let out a tired breath as he and Miri stepped out into the dining room. Blake had given her the evening off to take him home and make sure he had everything he needed. His arm still throbbed from where hot water had splashed him, but Blake had said it didn’t look bad enough to go to the hospital for and given him a burn cream to put on it.

“ _ Cameron!” _

Cameron sighed and flashed her a tired smile. “I  _ am _ listening to you. You haven’t said anything yet.”

Miri huffed, stopping next to the bar to pull her coat on. “I was trying to tell you what happened when I went to go take care of your Tuesday.”

Cameron flushed faintly and glanced back at the booth the man always sat in instinctively. He made himself look away, glancing toward the doors where Blake stood in close conversation with a man Cameron didn’t recognize. Blake seemed… upset?

“ _ Cameron _ ,” Miri shoved him lightly, “Stop ignoring me.”

“I’m not!” Cameron protested, before nodding at Blake, “Just-- have you ever seen that guy before?”

Miri glanced at him and shrugged, clearly refusing to be distracted. “I dunno. But listen, Cam, seriously.” They headed through the dining room towards the doors as she spoke. “So after you got hurt, I went to go check on him, let him know you weren’t coming back, and  _ guess what he was doing? _ ”

Cameron was too tired, and his arm hurt too much to play this game, but he didn’t want to snap at her. “What?”

A slow grin curled across her lips and she folded her arms smugly across her chest. “Well, it looked to me as if he were staring at a burn on his right arm. I can’t imagine how he could have gotten that sitting at the table.”

Cameron stopped dead, his shoes clicking on the tiled foyer floor, and stared at her. His arm gave a slow throb of pain beneath its bandages. “I-- you’re making fun of me,” he accused trying to push the idea from his mind before it could take root.

“I’m really not,” Miri said, giving him a little shove to get him moving again. “I swear, it was in the exact same spot Cam. It was the  _ same _ burn. And the guy panicked, didn’t say a word to me, just paid and left.”

The same burn. Could that really be possible? Cameron glanced back at the table where the man always sat, a little pulse of hope twisting around his heart. Could the man he had a crush on really be the same one he’d been feeling for so long? And if so, what the hell was it that the man did that got him hurt so often? 

He bit his lip, trying to tear his eyes away from the table before Miri really had something to tease him about. As he did though, a man caught his gaze and held it. It was the man Blake had been arguing with. He had turned in place, tracking Miri and Cameron’s progress through the dining room. And now he stared at Cameron with unnerving intensity. A shudder traced down Cameron’s spine and the man smiled slowly. It wasn’t a friendly smile. 

“Come  _ on _ ,” Miri sighed, “You can fantasize about him once you’re home. It’s too cold to linger in doorways.”

Cameron forced his eyes away from the stranger’s and nodded, following her out onto the street. When he glanced back again however, there was no sign of the man through Tuesday’s wide, well lit front windows. 

Stifling another shiver, Cameron tried to put him out of his mind.

* * *

A twinge of sharpness on his left arm made Cameron glance down as he stepped out of the shower. Faint white scratches stretched in a line down his forearm. For a moment he almost thought they looked like  _ words _ . He frowned and held his arm up to the light and froze. They  _ were _ words. There on his arm in a neat, flowing hand were three words.

_ Are you alright? _

For a long moment, Cameron couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the shock. A wild laugh escaped him and he sank down on the edge of the tub so he wouldn’t fall.

Was he alright? He was less certain of the answer than he would have been thirty seconds before at the very least. His soulmate was speaking to him on his skin. The very idea of it was insane, and yet, all of his experiences with the transferences had been mad so far. Why should this one be any different?

Cameron wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out into his apartment, looking around for anything he could use to respond. He tried not to trip over the four fluffy white puppies, cooing to them absently as he closed the bathroom door. Eventually, he settled on a sewing needle he kept in a little emergency kit in his kitchen drawer. He sat down at the kitchen island, watching breathlessly as the words slowly faded from his skin. 

Hesitantly, he lowered the needle to his skin, scratching just barely hard enough to leave a mark.

_ I’m okay. Is this really happening? _

Barely a moment later another message appeared on his arm with a little sting that Cameron barely noticed.

_ Apparently. _

Cameron’s breath caught, awe a living thing in his chest as he gazed down at the handwriting of the man he was made to love. He hoped it was a man at any rate. But he had more pressing questions than that to begin with.

_ Am  _ _ I _ _ alright? After everything you’ve been through? _ The memory of those injuries still made him flinch. He couldn’t imagine living through them in their entirety.

The response didn’t come back immediately, and when it did, the scratches came slowly, as if his soulmate were searching for words he didn’t have.

_ I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you existed. I thought I was bondless. I never felt you before tonight. _

Cameron frowned.  _ I think it’s the person that was hurting you that should apologize, not you. _

_ Con of the job I’m afraid. _

“A police officer maybe?” Cameron wondered aloud, but before he had a chance to ask, his soulmate added in a much more hurried scrawl underneath: 

_ Please tell me you’re not a kid. _

A helpless laugh escaped Cameron at that, as he imagined the distressed look that would have been on the other man’s face when he wrote it. The man that,  _ damn Miri _ , looked like his Tuesday man in his head.

_ I’m 26. Full grown man. _

_ Thank God. _

Cameron laughed again, rubbing his arm to ease the sting of the scratches. He thought for a long moment about what he wanted to know before lowering the needle to his arm again.

_ So, stranger, d’you have a name? _

The response came almost instantly, as if he’d been waiting to write it.

_ Julian Cross. _

Cameron smiled helplessly, a wave of giddy excitement sweeping through him despite the discomfort that the scratches were beginning to be, hot and tender to the touch.

_ Mine is Cameron Jacobs. _

Before he had a chance to see the other man’s next response, there came a knock on the door sending the puppies into fits. Cameron flushed, glancing down at his bare torso and stood quickly, hurrying into his bedroom to grab for a robe before going to answer the door.

It was the man from the restaurant, the one who had noticed him so intently tonight as they left. And he had a gun.

“Good evening Mr. Jacobs,” he said in a crisp, British accent. “May I come in?”


	5. Chapter 5

_ Cameron Jacobs _ .

Despite how faint the letters were, they still seemed to glow against Julian’s skin in the firelight.  _ Cameron _ . The man he had gone to Tuesdays to see every week for months now. The man that he had been so certain had a worthy soulmate waiting for him somewhere, and wouldn’t have time for someone like Julian.

_ The man who had had an emergency tonight and had to leave work _ . The burn? It must have been.  _ Christ _ , he should have seen it then. It was the only thing that made sense. He should have guessed the moment the waitress came back to the table in his place.

But how could he? Surely if there was any justice in the world, there would have been someone better out there for Cameron. Surely no kind god would have tied him to someone like Julian. 

For a long time, Julian just stared at the name, uncertain how to respond and certain that Cameron would write back any moment to ask him if he was all right. And Julian had no idea what to say. 

But no new questions were forthcoming. Apparently Cameron was content to let him take his time. Before Julian had figured out what it was he was going to say, his cellphone rang.

He dug it out of his pocket and answered it gruffly in his American voice. “Hello.”

“Arlo was at Tuesdays tonight.” There was strain in Blake’s voice. Julian sat bolt upright in his chair, his focus narrowing to Blake’s words with Razor sharpness.

“ _ What?” _

“We’re all right.” Blake reassured, and Julian could hear the click of the lock through the phone over the line. “He left and I closed up early, I just wanted to make sure you were home safe.”

“We’ll have to move you,” Julian said firmly, his eyes darkening as he moved into disaster control mode.

“I know.” Blake sighed. “I was just checking on you and Cameron, I won’t leave till Preston can come get me.”

A wash of cold ran through Julian and his fingers tightened on the phone sharply. “What do you mean check on Cameron?”

“Arlo looked at him. Just  _ looked _ . I’m sure I’m just being paranoid and it was probably nothing, but--”

Dread curdled in Julian’s stomach and he felt suddenly cold, despite the warmth of the fire next to him. “No, you’re not. What’s his address, Blake?”

Any ease fled Blake’s tone, leaving it hard and worried, “What’s going on Julian?”

“He’s my soulmate.”

“He-- I thought you didn’t have one!”

“So did I.”

Blake swore, repeatedly and fluently under his breath, but Julian didn’t have time for recriminations. “Where’s his address, Blake?”

Blake rattled it off without hesitation.

“Right,” Julian said, taking his gun from his desk and checking it with the ease of long practice. “We’ll go there and check on him first. With any luck, the three of us will be around Tuesdays within the hour.”

“Good luck,” Blake said, his voice dark with worry.

Julian didn’t say anything else, just hung up the phone and shoved it into his pocket. “Preston!” He called out, his voice dark with pulsing fury at the very idea of Arlo touching what was his.  _ Cameron… _ “We have a problem.”

* * *

The man had at least allowed Cameron to pen the dogs up in his room, keeping the gun trained on him the entire time, but that was where his patience seemed to end. 

“Sit,” he ordered, gesturing at one of Cameron’s kitchen chairs with the gun. Cameron swallowed, unable to draw his eyes away from the gun as he obeyed.

“W-what do you want? Money?” His throat felt tight with fear, and the disgusted look the man cast him didn’t help.

“Darling, if I needed money, why on earth would I rob the  _ waiter _ ,” he said dismissively. “Hands behind your back, now.” Cameron obeyed reluctantly and felt a thin piece of hard plastic wrap around both wrists and the spoke of the chair and pull viciously tight. He gasped with pain as it bit into his burned wrist. The man clipped the end of the ziptie and tucked it into the front pocket of his coat. “No need to leave any extra evidence behind.”

That made Cameron’s blood run cold. The man didn’t intend to leave any evidence behind, yet he hadn’t once even suggested a blindfold. Gibbering panic threatened to overwhelm him, pulsing in his chest, his throat, his blood.

The man grabbed the back of Cameron’s chair and dragged it across the room, planting it directly in front of his apartment door with a thud that jarred his teeth in his jaw.

Cameron shuddered, biting his lip hard to try and hold back the fear that pulsed in his chest. His robe had fallen open, one sleeve falling down over his shoulder messily. “Why are you doing this?” He managed when he felt as though he could speak without crying.

“He hasn’t  _ told _ you?” the man asked in surprise. A snort escaped him. “I knew he was a cold blooded bastard, but you’d think perhaps he might have softened for his  _ soulmate _ . Apparently not. I’m almost impressed.” He stepped around Cameron, back into the kitchen where Cameron couldn’t see him.

_His soulmate_. Cameron’s breath caught in his throat. _Julian_. Cameron thought again about Miri’s suspicion, that the Tuesday man was his soulmate. Was that true? Did he finally learn the man’s name, _now?_ _Will you feel it if he hurts me?_ He thought with a helpless pulse of fear.

A  _ Con of the job _ , Julian had said when he apologized for how much Cameron had felt through him. The man clearly thought they had had more time, time for secrets and confessions and intimacies. He didn’t know that Cameron wasn’t sure if he had ever seen his soulmate’s face. He didn’t know that he had only learned his name tonight.

But he thought Cameron was weak. He thought he could use him as bait, use him against Julian., and Cameron would be damned if he let that happen. 

They might not have had time for intimacies, or love, but if there was one thing the transference had given Cam, it was the ability to deal with pain.

“You’re trying to use me as bait,” Cameron said, sounding much braver than he felt. “It won’t work. He won’t come. He doesn’t even know where I live.”

The man chuckled as if he was a child that had said something very stupid. “Darling, if Cross is so out of practice he couldn’t find a single waiter’s address, he wouldn’t be worth the effort. He’ll be here. We just have to give him the right... incentive.”

As he said those last words, he stepped back around in front of Cameron, one of his own paring knives gleaming silver in his hands.

* * *

“Faster, Preston,” Julian bit out the order through clenched teeth as he felt another line of fire open slowly across his chest.

Preston stepped harder on the gas, his gaze trained on the road in front of him, “Yes, Sir. And when we get there, Sir?”

“When we get there, what?” Julian asked, checking his gun again.

“What’s the plan?”

“Kill him.”

Preston made a quiet noise of acknowledgement, but frowned. “If you’ll forgive my saying so sir, you haven’t been exactly successful at that so far.”

“No, I haven’t,” Julian agreed coldly, “Then, I was holding back.”

“And what’s the difference between then and now?”

Julian knew why he asked. Arlo had done dozens of awful things to the both of them in the years since he and Julian had parted ways, and Julian had never once managed to take the kill shot.

Tonight his hands felt steady and unhesitating on the trigger of his gun. “Now he’s touched what’s mine.”

Preston jerked the car to a halt in front of the apartment building. “Fair enough, Sir.”

Julian looked up at the building through a red haze of rage. He barely felt the skin of his cheek splitting along an invisible blade. “Try and get a line of sight on him through one of those windows.”

Preston’s expression hardened and he nodded, reaching for the case with his sniper rifle. “Yes, Sir.”

Julian climbed out of the car gracefully, slipping his gun in the pocket of his trench coat as he passed by the front desk. He headed up to the second floor, finding the right door within a moment. He didn’t knock, didn’t wait for the proof he knew he already had. 

He slammed the door in with a single hard kick to the wood just beneath the doorknob. The door frame shattered in a burst of wooden splinters, the door ricocheting off the opposite wall and rushing back, but he was already through, his gun out and pointed at the scene inside the room.

The first thing he saw was Cameron, tied to a chair and more disheveled than Julian had ever seen him. He looked terrified, his face white with fear and his bare chest littered with cuts that bled sluggishly across his skin. A long, shallow slice was weeping blood on his cheek.

Silver gleamed at his throat, and Julian forced his eyes away from Cameron’s to focus on the man behind him. “Arlo,” He growled, not even bothering to try and disguise his accent. “Get your bloody hands off him.”

Arlo straightened, but the knife didn’t move from where it pressed tight against Cameron’s throat. “You’ve gone soft, old fellow. Time was, you wouldn’t have given a damn, even if he was your soulmate. Time was, you denied ever having one.”

Even the night before, Julian might have let Arlo draw him into the same play by play they had always done. He would have hesitated, remembering what they had once been to each other. But that was before Cameron. That was before life had reminded him of what he had been once, before all of this. That was before Arlo touched what was his. 

Julian didn’t answer. Instead he pulled the trigger once, again,  _ again _ , until his gun clicked empty and Arlo’s body lay sprawled and limp on the wooden floorboards. Simple, as if it hadn’t been coming for nearly ten years. As if he hadn’t let Arlo go again and again for whatever they had once been.

“Things change,” he said coldly, lowering the glock.

A soft sound made him turn, and he quickly pocketed the gun, going over to where Cameron sat. “Are you all right?”

Cameron was trembling slightly when he touched him, but he managed a weak smile. “Mostly. What happened to your voice?”

An exhausted laugh escaped Julian and he rested his forehead against Cameron’s hair. “ _ That _ is a very long story,” he said dryly. He reached up to cup the side of Cameron’s face in his hand, his chest growing tight at the way they slotted together, his warm skin perfect against his palm. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”  _ I never want to scare you _ .

But, incredibly, Cameron didn’t  _ seem _ scared. He shook his head, “Thank you. For coming.”

Julian’s throat went tight. “I will  _ always _ come for you.” he said seriously. “No matter what we are to each other Cameron, I will  _ always _ come for you.”

A slow, cheeky grin dawned on Cameron’s lips and he tilted his head to look up at Julian. “Do I have a say in that what we are to each other part?”

Julian felt at a loss for words, overwhelmed now that it actually came to this. “Anything, Cameron.”

Cameron bit his lip in a grin and stretched forward to catch Julian’s lips in a kiss that burned. Time seemed to slow, the air turning to molasses around them as Julian’s world narrowed to nothing by Cameron’s mouth, the heat of his skin, the feel of his hair under his hand. He kissed him with all of the hunger and loneliness he had packed away for so long. It was addictive and intoxicating, and Julian knew that he could never let it go. 

“ _ Christ _ ,” he heard Preston’s voice from behind him, but didn’t break the kiss. “Fuckin’ hell, sir, you might have at least untied the kid first. I knew you were a cradle robber.”

Julian flipped him off without breaking the kiss.

Cameron’s laugh broke it at last, and he sat back. “Uhm, I would like to be untied,” he agreed.

Preston chuckled, “I can take care of that, no don’t bother to get up, Sir,” he muttered, rolling his eyes when Julian didn’t move.

Julian cupped Cameron’s face in his hands gently,”Come home with me,” he murmured.

Cameron flashed him a shy smile, “On a first date?” he asked playfully.

Preston snorted and Julian cast him a dirty look before focusing on Cameron again, “We have decades for first dates,” he said softly, “For tonight just let me hold you.”

Preston cut through the zip tie with a little grunt, and Cameron’s hands came up to cover Julian’s. “Please,” he whispered.

Emotion swelled in Julian’s chest warm and bright and overwhelming. And for the first time in years, he remembered what his Grandmother had told him, the first time he managed to voice his fear that he was bondless.

_ It’s rare for people to be completely alone in the world. _

The End


End file.
